Headcase
by Chibibec
Summary: The aftermath of a case has far reaching consequences for john and sherlock. John has been badly hurt, and sherlock struggles coming to grips with the changes it will have for both of them, and with his emerging humanity - slow relationship, eventual johnlock
1. Chapter 1

**All characters belong to the BBC Sherlock TV show.**

 **I've had this idea floating around for a while, I am fascinated by medicine, and hope I manage to at least correctly use some of the terminology here.**

 **Warnings: some swearing, mentions of blood, poor old John, Sherlock staring and a cup of 'tea' if you could call it that.**

 **o000000000o**

 **Chapter 1**

He sat and he stared...hands steepled under his chin like marble columns.

There wasn't much to do otherwise. His usual fallbacks to abate boredom were quite lacking. Currently, In fact, he could hardly say he was bored. He couldn't say what he was at the moment, but bored certainly was not a word that discribed how he _felt..._ not used to feeling like others. If this is how other people normally felt...how _did_ he feel?

Inwardly he recognised the elevated heart rate, the jitters in his hands, the slight tachypnea - shallow fast breathing. Symptoms commonly associated with stress. Was he stressed? Most definitely. What was causing it? Well the constant computerised beeping certainly made him a bit jittery. Especially when it verges off it's normal rythem. The _whoosh_ of air subsequently made any thought processes halt from forming beyond the room. The hitched rise and fall of the chest in his vision definitely made him feel... _edgy..._

 _Fuck sake_. One of the marble columns moved to wipe down his now haggered face. Quickly passing over his eyes, and fingers splaying on either side of his temples to rub, move down his now stubbled cheeks, so he could continue to stare... at what he was staring at.

So he sat, and stared... Slender fingers pressed inwards at dry lips, halting at the Cupid bow.

 _Definitely stressed, how plebian and boring._ His mind palace seemed inaccessible as it had the last week. His thoughts refused to move beyond the last few days, refused to pick up anything beyond the _now_ and before the _then_. His mind was cruel, it sent him down this tortured path again and again, poking holes in what he had done, criticising his choices, condemning his actions. Projecting the horror that _maybe.. just maybe..._ if I had been that little bit quicker, he wouldn't be here. _He_ wouldnt be here...Wouldn't be there...lying in _ICU_ for the 7th day. He wouldn't be... he would be... he would he home. John would be at 221B Baker street with him, yelling at him to _please_ remove the rat kidneys spread all over the sink. John would be tutting at him until he nibbled on the toast placed on his lap. John would be mumbling goodnight as he trudged up the stairs to his room. John would be... John.

But John _is_ here with him. But only Sherlock can hear the _beep beep beep_ of the monitor, the _whoosh_ of the ventilator, the chattering of life around them, however sick or busy. Only Sherlock can see the tubes and wires coalescing on the bed, biting into, burying into the body laying there, like worms feeding on a corpse. _Bit not good - don't think of corpses - delete._ Only Sherlock can see the rise and fall of johns chest has the ventilator forces air into his lungs, and the occasional hitch as the body fights against the intrusion... only Sherlock can see the bandages, everywhere. The bruises down the arms, along the chest, concentrated around the wrists. More bandages wrapped meticulously around johns head, the blond hair sticking out at the edges near his left ear...

Sherlock knows the right side of johns head is currently rather sparse of hair. He'd normally find it amusing apart from the situation it's resulted from.

Sherlock is jolted out of his one sided staring consest by a cup of tea being waved in front of his face.

"Drink Sherlock. Your no use to John if you die from neglecting yourself - more so than usual" Mycroft drawled. "Although Its debateable as to wether this is tea or just murky water." Sherlock's eyes quickly shuttered, and glanced at the tasteless looking liquid offered to him. He took it anyway.

"I can't say I'm much use to him currently at the moment" Sherlock muttered back in a vaguely tonless yet calm manner.

Mycroft tutted and Sherlock felt him pull a chair up next to Sherlock's statue like pose.

"How is our good doctor doing today?" He asked.

"The same as yesterday" answered Sherlock. His eyes wondered up from Johns body and to the hated heart monitor when it fluctuated. He didn't see Mycrofts cold eyes soften as he observed his brother tense minutely and relax as the monotonous beeping continued its dull beat.

Sherlock mindlessly drank some tea as his gaze wondered back to bandaged golden locks, and the closed eyes underneath the ventilator tubing, nasal gastric band and tape. He grimaced down at the cup and returned to staring. _That can't feel nice._

Mycroft followed his younger brothers stare. "Any change in prognosis?"

Sherlock cleared his throat "unknown still." He stared into the 'tea' again with heated eyes. "It's been 3 days since they took him out of the medically induced coma. We just have to wait and see if- **when** he wakes up what the damage inflicted will have caused"

Mycroft winced at Sherlock's wording, and subsequent slip. He knew well enough coma prognosis drastically declined after the first 7 days, never mind the statistics of dying early on in a coma. He also new Sherlock knew this too.

He glanced at the foot of the hard hospital chair his brothers lanky form was folded up in. Booked upon books were stacked around him. Someone would hardly believe Sherlock had read all of these without missing on sleep. Mycroft knew his brother had hardly slept anyway. Titles and topics ranging around the subject in the bed. some books even pulled from johns own shelf in his bedroom, which housed his medical journals and updated editions of medical texts.

He leant down and picked up a thick book, just as a faint knock sounded above the whiring beeping machinery. A small brunette head popped in pushing in a small trolly carrying bandages, swabs and creams. "Just going to change the bandages gentlemen." She knew better than to ask them to leave. Whilst the lanky man with the wild eyes and curly dark hair was terrifying in his stubbornness and possessiveness of his friend - or was it partner? - it was the taller one, with the cold calculating gaze which unsettled everyone. They were used to distraught loved ones, tears, breakdowns, fights, and even abuse towards themselves. But the coldness and authority the man flung around had them all step wary of upsetting him. He'd taken charge as soon as the patient had entered the hospital, striding in with his umberella, demanding private rooms, placing in new doctors to take over care. The hospital manager also not escaping this mans athoritive requests, giving them direct permission for the curly haired one -Sherlock? Strange name- to stay regardless of the policies in the ICU.

Sherlock put the 'tea' down on the ground eyeing with with distaste, and unfolded himself to stand near the head of the bed. Uncharacteristically gentle hands helped the nurse unravel bandages, bringing to light the mess underneath of Johns head. River stone colour eyes darted over the purple and green hue of skin, shaven of hair, dried blood, and neat stitches. Deducing how it looked comparible to yesterday. He wasn't a doctor, his one lay in bed before him, but he thought it looked less angry today.

"It's looking good" the nurse said gently, wiping up around the site with antiseptic wipes. She applied a thin layer of cream around the wound, which ran from johns temple to just behind his right ear. Sherlock hummed slightly, and raised a hand, to touch some of the freed and longer golden locks.

Mycroft watched all this then proceeded to open the well thumbed book titled 'neuroscience: the medical guide' he flipped through the pages, deducing which had been most recently perused by the slight dirt smudges on the page edge and how easily it fell open. Several chapters stood out; _traumatic brain injury, Subarachnoid haemorrhage, coma, brain structure, parietal lobe, rehabilitation methods._

He sighed and shut the book and watched his brother. His self proclaimed sociopathic cold, unfeeling brother, finally feel something. Glancing at Johns unresponsive form on the bed, he feels something within himself sink - perhaps his brother is not the only one.

Sherlock held johns head gently as the nurse finished wrapping bandages around it. "Thankyou" he mumbled softly. The nurse glanced up at him and smiled sympathetically.

The nurse left the gentlemen for a few minutes before ruturning to change over an IV bag, and an imvtravensous syringe. "Just his daily AED loves, not to worry."

"AED?" Mycroft turned to Sherlock with a raised brow.

"Antiepileptic drug. Most likely, John will experience some seizure like activity for a while. They found traces of AED in his blood stream at that damn place, under all the sedatives" Sherlock sat back in his seat, and crossed his long lanky legs in front of him. Hands in pockets. Staring at John, again. "It's possible that he already had seizures whilst under their captivity due to the damage. Again - no one knows what effect it will have on him." Mycroft could see arm muscles pulled taught and besides his brothers calm face, knew he was clenching his hands. He waited in silence for Sherlock to continue.

"I'm so angry Mycroft" Sherlock whispered. Low and gutteral. It sent a shiver down Mycrofts spine. "There seems to be no filter. Stress, anger - I can't seem to control these _feelings..._ these _emotions_. I can't think of anything else, but how god, damn, _fucking, furious_ I am. If that bastard wasn't already dead..." he bolted forward in his seat, arms pulled off of his pockets and furiously rubbed at his face. Agitation quite clear in his posture.

"It seems dear brother, that sentiment has finally caught up with you" Mycroft mused. He picked the umberella from leaning next to him. "Try not to dwell brother mine. We can only look forward now, and hope the good doctor pulls through..." he glances at Johns body "...if not relitively unscathed, at least relitively whole".

Mycroft patted Sherlock's shoulder, once, before striding to the door. "I'll be back tomorrow brother, please contact me if there is any change." He said before leaving the room.

Sherlock was left to wait. He sat, and he stared. Waiting for this limbo to end, for John to wake up, this purgatory to finally finish for both of them.

 **o0000000000o**

 **I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Poor John!**

 **Please review, I'd love to hear any feedback. I will try and update within a week.**


	2. Chapter 2

**All characters belong to the BBC Sherlock TV show.**

 **I apologise for spelling errors and grammar errors in this story. I'm currently writing this out on my iPhone in the evenings on the FanFiction app and spell check does not exist! I will try and edit when I spot them, so shout if you see an error.**

 **Warnings: some angsty Sherlock, lots of medical jargon, still questionable 'tea' and poor old John**

 **o00000o**

 **Chapter 2**

'John... you need to wake up. This is getting ridiculous' Sherlock scowled down at the bed in front of him. 'The tea here is awful, they won't let me play my violin and I miss the sofa in the flat' _I miss you -_ like hell he'd say out loud. 'John. John.. John?'

Sherlock growled, a spike of anger glaring through him and slumped in his chair. It was day 5 of a non medically induced coma. His feet bounced anxiously. His hands fluttered down to the books next to him, then retracted. He'd been having one sided conversations with John for the last 2 days. Ever since that nurse (there's more than one nurse - but Sherlock had frightened most of them away with so scathing deductions if he felt them incompetent - only a few remain steadfastly consistent) had mentioned it may help. Sherlock had been wild eyed and flipping through medical texts obsessively trying to find anything that would help John, or himself feel better. The nurse had taken a bit of a stand against Sherlock's eccentric behaviour and tried to guide him towards something a bit more productive. Talking to John was apparently one of those things.

That nurse walked in and Sherlock scowled some more. 'It's not working! This ridiculous notion that talking to someone in a coma will positively influence their prognoses is just that -ridiculous' he pushed slightly shaking hands into rather messy hair, tugging at the -now greasy- ends.

The nurse smiled at him slightly sympathetically as she checked Johns wrist band before setting up more morphine - Sherlock scowled some more and flicked his eyes over her once more, gaining more data each time. _Married, 5 years. 2 children, 1 blond and one ginger haired. Scratches on arm - dog? likes coffee, non smoker, staining on teeth, but fingers fine. Took bus here - lives in part of London with no tube station. Glasses, 2 sets, I can see spare in pocket with book- likes to read. Romance novel enthusiast - ah that explains the inane advice_.

'It's been proven that some coma patients can hear you whilst they are, where-ever they are. Dr Watson doesn't seem the kind to just hang up and leave, I'm sure he's listening' she spoke softly.

'Then why isn't he waking up?' He pouted - a bit petulantly the nurse thought.

'listening and doing are two separate things Mr Holmes' she answered more firmly. She straightened from finishing setting up the pump and whipped around to him sharply, hands on hips. She advanced on him and Sherlock sank into his seat slightly - completely involunarily he was sure.

'John has been through an awful lot, and he will wake up when he's ready and able to and not a moment before. Now you, on the other hand need a shower and something to drink _and_ eat Sherlock Holmes. I don't want John waking up to find a skeleton for a partner-'

'- Friend' Sherlock scowled further, tucking his arms under his armpits.

'-don't care! You certainly seem to be the closest person to him considering **you** are his health care power of attorney and not his family. And as such you have a duty to look after yourself so you can look after him.' She pulled out some towels from beneath the cabinet next to John, and Sherlock found his face covered in them as she threw them at him. She marched around the bed, picked up a carry on bag which held Sherlock's effects and manhandled Sherlock into standing up - sherlock squawking as she did so, and pushed him into the little bathroom provided to private rooms. Mutterings of 'unhand me woman!' And 'what the hell do you-!' 'Let **go** -!' We're cut off as she slammed the door shut as Sherlock spun around.

'Now I will wait with John, whilst you shower and for gods sake shave- and I will get you a cup of tea and some toast after' she tossed as she turned around back to Johns bed, so straighten the sheets and take care of the more _personal_ aspects of his care while his boyfriend - _friend-_ was occupied. She heard some explicitives from the bathroom and banging which she should have been concerned about but then the sound of running from water from the shower.

Someone clearing their throat had her glancing to the door to the taller, older Holmes brother, who was holding his umbrella, and raising an eye brow. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. 'I must say, the last time Sherlock was forcibly moved by someone he was 7, and had decided that mummy's drawing room wall was a good place to practice drawing out Boltzmans equation of thermodynamics. Nanny Lina was rather a large women if I recall but it still took a while to peel Sherlock off the wallpaper. He was quite determined.' he remarked.

The Nurse smiled and narrowed her eyes slightly. 'We he may be a grown man, but I have experience dealing with quirky and more _stubborn_ individuals' she turned back to John.

'How is he today nurse..?'

'Rosemary, but you can call me rosie' she nodded at Mycroft 'although it seems like there's no improvement, there are some positive signs for prognoses' she gestured Mycroft to join her. As he walked over to the foot of the bed she lifted the sheet to show johns foot and leg. It was covered in yellowing green and blue bruises around the ankles, and muscle wastage had set in, but the nurse didn't seem concerned. She glanced at Mycroft to see if he was watching, and then flicked her nail hard against the arch of johns foot. It was subtle but there was a slight flinch. Barely a movement, more like a tensing of muscles.

'See that?' She flicked Johns foot again 'withdrawal from pain, or at least a reaction to a stimulus is a massive jump in points in the Glasgow coma scale. When John came off a medically induced coma he was scoring 3, the minimum score for GCS but now I'd say he's scoring at least a 7. That's really positive. His bloody pressure has stabalised, and there's no pressure on the brain now. He's only on the ventilator until we are sure he will wake up enough to take it out' she tucked Johns leg back under the cover, and donned gloves to replace the bag attached to the catheta.

'As for Sherlock - Maybe not such positive news. That man seems to be getting worse the longer he stays here.' She tutted.

'Hmmm yes, my brother doesn't do too well when _feelings_ are involved. He's not used to them, or rather, not used to feeling them for others. However our doctor has always brought out a different side of Sherlock' his lips twitched briefly into a sardonic smile. Mycroft sat down on one of the vIsitors chairs, folding his newspaper on his lap and tucking the suit jacket around him neatly. 'I'm pleased at least someone is looking out for him'

'I'd rather not have 2 patients to tend' she huffed 'god knows he's only demand a bed in the same room, though we may need to think about getting something in here that isn't a chair for him to sleep on. Your a man with connections, perhaps you can get a futon?'

'I'm certain I could try, though Sherlock rarely sleeps, he's always had a touch of insomnia ever since he was a baby. Drove mummy batty'

Just as she's finished taking stats from the machienes surrounding John, the bathroom door flung open, letting out a billow of steam. A much more presentable Sherlock erupted from the bathroom in a whirlwind of dripping wet curls and hastily shrugged on clothing. He was practically snarling. Even so he'd managed to shave without cutting and change into clean clothes.

Mycroft coughed to gain his brother attention. 'good to see you looking a bit more human Sherlock. Rosemary was just showing me some signs of johns recovery'

Sherlock's eyes flashed from Mycroft to the nurse like lightning 'he's waking up?'

'Not so much waking up, but showing small signs of progress' she said slowly, staring at Sherlock. 'I've been around many patients in a coma, they are not asleep, they don't wake up like they do in movies.' She flopped back the sheet to show Sherlock what she had shown Mycroft. Sherlock let out a small sound, when she flicked his foot, but stilled when he saw the twitch.

'What happens next?' He asked, something almost reverent about his tone'

Rosie smiled 'next, you will eat something and then I will phone your doctor to come and explain.'

 **o000000000o**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It turned out a bit longer than I thought - Hopefuly the pace is alright. Recovering from trauma is a long process, and not at all like you see in movies or read about. I wanted to make it kind of realistic!**


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